I can reach back. It was May 25 and I was sitting on the bed writing an addendum to the piece below. It’s funny, when I see myself sitting there writing I realise that my memory has placed me in a room belonging to a different flat. One that was nearby, but that I lived in five years previously. But that’s not the important thing, the important thing is that I was hurrying to try and write down the distinct feeling I was having that time is a place. Time is a place. I interrupted my fractured sentences and ran to meet M in The Camel, wondering aloud to him who I should read to help me think this through. Walter Benjamin? Other philosophers who think about time? Or scientists? I don’t know what happened next. I think I went to work and forgot about everything. The summer passed.

One Friday evening at the beginning of September, before I even had time to think about it, I was driven though London. I was busy having conversations with the city in my head as I usually do, as we passed through the different neighbourhoods on our way. But I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t even understand that I was leaving until the plane was taking off. And then it was Sunday morning and bleary-eyed we were looking in astonishment at the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. Ever since the plane had landed I’d been brightly announcing “we live here now!” whenever the thought occurred to me, but looking at the picture-postcard icons I secretly knew we must be on holiday.

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